The Secret Life of Steve Rogers
by Del Rion
Summary: The life of Steve Rogers is often a complicated affair. He's still coming to grips with the modern world, but there are some struggles that go further than that.


**Story Info**

**Title:** The Secret Life of Steve Rogers

**Author:** Del Rion

**Fandom:** The Avengers & Captain America (MCU)

**Timeline:** before "Captain America: The Winter Soldier"

**Genre:** Drama

**Rating:** T / FRT

**Characters:** Bruce Banner (Hulk), Clint Barton (Hawkeye), J.A.R.V.I.S., Steve Rogers (Captain America), Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow), Tony Stark (Iron Man). Also: James "Bucky" Barnes, James "Rhodey" Rhodes (War Machine).

**Summary:** The life of Steve Rogers is often a complicated affair. He's still coming to grips with the modern world, but there are some struggles that go further than that.  
Complete.

**Warnings:** Language, social drinking, possible PTSD & psychological trauma, canonical violence.

**Disclaimer:** Iron Man, Avengers, and Marvel Cinematic Universe, including characters and everything else, belong to Marvel, Marvel Studios, Jon Favreau, Joss Whedon, Shane Black, Joe Johnston, Louis Leterrier, Paramount Pictures, Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures, and Universal Pictures. In short: I own nothing; this is pure fiction created to entertain likeminded fans for no profit whatsoever.

**Beta:** Mythra (mythras-fire)

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**About ****_The Secret Life of Steve Rogers_****:** This story was loosely (or not so loosely) inspired by a post on **The Avengers Headcanons** (Tumblr), and three separate prompts on **avengerkink** (LiveJournal):

**#2447**: _When Steve wakes up in the morning, one of the first things he does is check the date. It's become an obsessive habit. He is paranoid about falling asleep for too long again._ (submitted by **_i-had-him-on-the-ropes_**)

Steve Rogers: Pool Hustler (submitted by anonymous)

Obsesses over simple training mistake [TW: PTSD] (submitted by anonymous)

Steve thinks he's "out of time" again (submitted by **_cameron_mckell_**)

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**Story and status:** Below you see the writing process of the story. If there is no text after the title, then it is finished and checked. Possible updates shall be marked after the title.

**The Secret Life of Steve Rogers**

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. . .

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**The Secret Life of Steve Rogers**

* * *

Every morning, Steve wakes up before the alarm clock on the bedside drawer can make a sound. The Tower is silent, so it isn't any kind of noise that drives him out of his sleep. In fact, the Tower is _too silent_, soundproofed for inhabitant comfort no doubt, but Steve's used to hearing his neighbors moving around two floors away even when he was pretty much deaf in one ear.

Here, any sound he can pick up is distant, sheltering them from the rest of the world. Some might consider it an attempt to place the occupants of the top floors in a world of their own, far away from the reality awaiting outside.

Steve never forgets what awaits outside. Not even if he wanted to.

This isn't his world… but it's the hand he's been dealt, and he'll have to adapt to it.

Just like every morning, he reaches out for his phone. Most people today would check their messages and missed calls, maybe get a glimpse of the news and their email account.

Steve only checks the date, then returns the phone to its place by the alarm clock.

_"The time is 5:57 am, on November 16th, 2012,"_ Tony's AI, J.A.R.V.I.S., informs him before he can ask; after he requested the time and date on two consecutive days, the AI has since taken up the habit of notifying him of said information moments after he wakes up – regardless of whether Steve has already checked it for himself, because that's how he did it on the first few days, too.

J.A.R.V.I.S. never asks why he needs the confirmation of where he is. Steve doesn't offer an answer. He knows it's a habit he would do well to grow out of, but…

Like most things he does, it is for a reason.

Just like when he dresses and heads out for his morning run, alternating his route but always making sure to go past one of the newsstands, corroborating that it is, without a doubt, the day after tomorrow.

Sometimes in his head, he recounts all the days since S.H.I.E.L.D. released him out into the world after his awakening from the ice. It's an ever-increasing number of days, but his memory hasn't failed him yet.

Steve will never admit to anyone that he's paranoid of falling asleep and waking up farther in the future than he already is, but after he's gone through his morning routine, he feels a certain calm take over him.

He knows for sure where he is – _when_ he is.

The only thing that remains to figure out is what to do with his life from here on out, when all the things he knew are a thing of the past. However, usually by the time he returns from his run – if not before, because he always has his pager on him – there's some new mission from S.H.I.E.L.D. or a small-scale Avengers op needing to be dealt with.

It keeps making him feel useful, and that in turn helps him to get out of bed every morning.

Not that he would know how to quit even if he tried.

* * *

Over seventy years in the ice, and some things don't change: the air might smell different, the cars, people, and the language have evolved, but as the tip of the cue puts the rock in motion, followed by a snap and clink of the other balls striking each other as they collide and roll away from the impact, that is still the same.

Sure, the materials have developed a bit, but the corners are still the same, and after a few experimental shots the first time someone put a cue in his hand after the ice – it was Tony – Steve's got it down.

That is something Colonel James Rhodes is swiftly coming to understand.

The man is frowning as Steve calls the shots and keeps emptying the table, one ball at a time. Rhodes isn't bad at this, but Steve is better.

"Come on, man," Rhodes complains as Steve calls yet another shot, a rather complex one, and nails it after both the cue ball and his intended target have sailed across the table several times, never touching one of the other balls. Rhodes looks accusingly at Tony – who is failing to hide his grin behind a glass of scotch. "You set me up," Rhodes accuses. "You said he's barely ever played pool."

"He hasn't played a lot _after_ his little nap," Tony corrects. "Mostly because he usually wants to play for money, and everyone here has learned from experience that he can't be beat."

Steve suppresses a smile as he aims, breathes, and makes the shot for the 8-ball. _Nailed it_, he thinks as it falls into the pocket he intended.

"This is not a victimless crime," Rhodes claims as he reaches for his wallet and pays up.

"What did you expect?" Natasha drawls from where she's sprawled across one of the couches. "You've seen him throw his shield around."

"That's a weapon," Rhodes argues.

"It's math," Tony claims, almost proudly. "I mean, I kind of hoped it was something he got from the serum, but turns out he was hustling pool long before he ever signed up for the SSS experiment."

"Please tell me you made Tony's wallet at least a little lighter," Rhodes says to Steve while he heads out to get himself another beer; he stopped drinking after realizing he was about to lose, but has clearly deemed this a proper time to continue.

"A bit," Steve admits, joining Rhodes at the bar and grabbing a beer of his own. Just because he can't get drunk doesn't mean he can't enjoy a few – even though he's yet to find a beer that tastes the same as it used to. However, he's found a few he maybe likes a bit more, from those microbreweries Tony likes to buy from, but he's not about to tell anyone that.

"Did he make it weird?" Rhodes asks.

"It felt like a science experiment before long," Steve agrees. "At first, he tried to beat me with math, but my hand-eye-coordination skills are not tied to how high the stakes are. If he'd found a way, he would have made me play against J.A.R.V.I.S."

"Still working on it!" Tony calls out to them.

"In the end, I had to refuse to continue playing against him because he kept losing and I felt bad for taking his money," Steve shrugs.

"Yeah, Tony can't play without something at stake," Rhodes agrees.

"It's fortunate, then, that I have no qualms against taking Stark's money," Clint grins from his spot beside Natasha. "Would be unfair to not let him play."

"You're hardly the challenge you think you are," Tony quips back.

"Beat you enough times to prove otherwise."

"Which makes Cap's win over you even sweeter," Tony decides.

Clint frowns. "I'll figure him out yet…"

"You're not the first guy to say that," Steve states as he and Rhodes join the others at the cluster of couches and chairs.

"Look at you, all cocky," Natasha teases.

"Well, these days I don't have to worry about a sore loser beating me up in the back alley of the bar for taking their money fair and square." Back then, hustling pool had been an easy way to make a few extra bucks, because who was going to take Steve seriously? It was one of the few times Steve let it go, in favor of the payout at the end. Of course, some of the fellas hadn't looked favorably upon that tiny deception, even though there was nothing unfair about it; Steve couldn't help it if no one considered him a threat until it was too late.

After the serum, people took him more seriously at face-value. Hanging around the Howling Commandos, though… It surely brought some bad habits up to the surface.

He smiles to himself at the memory.

"Do share," Tony requests.

Steve glances at his companions, all of them pleasantly buzzed – save for Bruce, who is quietly sitting on a pillow on the floor, drinking juice as far as Steve can tell. Still, he has joined them for a night of fun and games, which is good for the team.

Another thing that hasn't changed over time…

"Back in the war, whenever we had down-time and got to stay in a city or a town… Sitting still didn't really suit us, so the Commandos and I would find the local watering hole. There was always one to be found, no matter how small the community we were staying in.

"We would go there and sit down, drink all night, loud and obnoxious. It kept us busy only for so long, though, and just about every bar had a pool table. We would challenge locals, mostly to pay for more drinks. They always accepted, seeing how many I'd already had, but I couldn't get drunk then any more than I can today." Steve smiles fondly at the memory, recalling the cheering from the Howling Commandos, and Bucky's knowing grin as the truth began to sink in for his challengers.

As long as they didn't play for actual money, even the most disgruntled losers usually accepted to pay up in the form of drinks and not go looking for more trouble than they could handle. After all, getting into a bar fight was another way to let out steam, but Steve had tried to keep his men in line for the most part. They weren't there to fight the locals, after all.

"The Surprisingly Dark History of Captain America: the Notorious Pool Hustler," Tony samples it like a title of the next bestseller book. "Maybe we should call up the Smithsonian, tell them to adjust that upcoming exhibition of theirs."

"I think some things are better left out of the history books," Bruce argues softly.

"How can you say that?" Tony asks, pretending to be shocked. "If the historians of old had that attitude, everyone would think history so dull that no one would study it – and then someone would need to color things up a bit. Look at the old texts, like the Bible; they've got stuff going on."

Bruce frowns, whereas Steve just lets out a tiny huff of amusement. Tony gets on his nerves a lot, just like his father did back in the day, being a very different person from Steve himself, but he also valued their friendship. Just like he finds himself valuing his new friendships every day, no matter all their differences.

It wasn't as if he and the Howling Commandos had that much in common, either, except for trying to take down HYDRA and to help end the war. They bonded through hardships, just like he is bonding with the Avengers now, and while Steve still feels like the odd one out more often than not, he is adjusting.

After all, it's not like he can go back in time, so the only way is forward, whether he likes it or not.

"How about we play again?" Clint suggests suddenly, jumping up from his seat and approaching the pool table. "Ten bucks for the winner."

He acts cocky, as always. Talks big. Steve knows from experience that Clint's aim is good, and if they were playing darts, the archer might actually win.

"You're on," Steve accepts, taking his beer with him because it doesn't matter if he drinks or not.

Half an hour later, he's ten bucks richer, and Rhodes seems to be in a better mood after seeing someone else share in his misery of losing.

* * *

They aren't part of S.H.I.E.L.D., but occasionally they train with their people, or are given instructions for their own training regimen. For the most part those are considered helpful hints, because Steve finds that many of his teammates cannot be told what to do, especially by an agency they don't answer to.

The Avengers are a private group, after all, no matter their affiliations and shared missions. For one, Tony and Bruce wouldn't have it any other way.

While they're out and about doing their own things, Steve finds it important for them to train together. That's the only way they're going to become a team, and surprisingly enough, the others agree. It doesn't always go smoothly, and their timetables aren't constantly in alignment, but when they get together, they try to be productive.

Between Tony's suit, the Hulk, and Thor's absence, there are things they can't actually bring to every training session, but Steve still tries to find ways to make it work. He feels it's his responsibility, as the unelected leader of the team – that's what happened during the Battle of New York, and they've stuck to that, more or less. Tony calls it to question every now and then, but at the end of the day, he follows Steve's lead – when it matters, at least.

Tony doesn't always take their training seriously, perhaps because he relies on his suit to do the heavy lifting – literally. Steve can see he's keeping himself fit, but compared to himself, Clint and Natasha, he'll never be in the same league, and he knows it. Bruce doesn't even try, seeing as his strength lies in very dangerous territory.

The Hulk doesn't partake in training for safety reasons, although Tony keeps pointing out it might be beneficial for the team to interact with the 'other guy'. He doesn't push it, though, probably knowing that if something happens, containing the Hulk might become nigh impossible.

Steve agrees that it would be useful for the entire team to be there – the Hulk and Thor included – but safety needs to come first, theirs and everyone else's. Silently, he leaves it up to Tony to devise a way for their powerhouse to train with them without putting everyone at risk, and maintaining Bruce's peace of mind.

While there are training areas at the Avengers Tower that are quite adequate, they still use some of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s offered facilities as well. It usually depends on who is available to participate, and what they are intending to do; a group of superheroes have a lot of ground to cover in order to become a working unit, especially when their strengths and skillsets are so varied.

Steve is nothing but inventive, though, and as far as it goes with Clint and Natasha, who are the most willing participants when it comes to regular training; they have a wide variety of things they can do, from sparring to gymnastics and finding ways to combine their skillsets in mission-like situations.

Seeing as it is still rare to see all the Avengers deployed as one, Steve tries to make do with the likeliest scenarios they might face on the battlefield. Having each other's backs is important, and while Tony will shrug it off and say he has the aerial back-up covered, Steve doesn't want to rely on just that – knowing that Tony may be backing them up one second and then flying off to either save or fight someone in the next.

So, those of them bound to earth and usual means of transportation need to get a little inventive, and seeing as Steve's the enhanced one of the three of them, he's more than happy to give the other two a boost.

That is how they end up practicing mid-jump catches and lifts. Clint is the one usually perched high enough to get a good look around, but it also means he sometimes has to vacate his spot with minimal warning – and relocate to another vantage point as needed.

The exercise itself is simple: Steve takes off from one raised platform, jumping down onto another. At the same time, Clint takes off from a level above Steve's starting point, running in fast. Clint has to jump towards Steve, but not far enough to hit the ledge, so that Steve will catch him by the arm mid-air and then swing him up onto another platform above them.

On all the flat surfaces, there are thin, padded gymnastic pads to prevent injuries and soften landings, and while they have no such luxury out in the field, there's no reason to play it realistically until absolutely necessary. Clint and Natasha share Steve's mentality on playing it as real as possible, not depending on 'safety nets', as Clint calls them, but seeing as Steve is the only one who can take a dive to the actual floor without a fear of lasting injuries, they keep some minimum safety measures in place; they could set up wires to make the jumps and catches safer, but they find them a bit too restrictive.

Besides, Steve has always appreciated the pounding of adrenaline in his veins, the thrill making him perform with a singular focus to the task at hand. He doesn't necessarily classify himself as an adrenaline junkie, although there have been people who've stated otherwise – people who knew him very well.

So far, none of his new teammates have brought it up, although sometimes Natasha gives him _that look_, like she's onto him.

Steve doesn't think he'll ever admit to it, whatever conclusion she reaches.

They keep timing their approach and jumps for several minutes, getting to know each other's rhythm and movements. Each of them is a quick study, and Natasha keeps throwing in comments to improve their performances, not sparing them from criticism when it's due.

"Let's do it!" Clint calls over to him. "I'm ready," he adds, shaking himself all over as if his muscles need the extra wake-up.

Steve nods and backs up to his starting point. He goes over the motions in his head one more time, picturing the flurry of motion, the strain on his body, the weight of Clint's body swinging forward and then up, and the exact moment when he'll let go to allow him to climb onto the ledge above. They've pieced it together, one move at a time, and they are as much in synch as they can be.

"Ready?" Natasha confirms.

"Call it," Steve orders, bracing himself, still able to hear Clint's breathing above him, though he cannot see him.

"Go!" Natasha calls out sharply, without a countdown, and Steve can hear Clint springing into action, feet hitting the thin mattress of the platform in a steadily increasing rhythm as he prepares to launch.

Steve hurries to catch up, knowing he's faster, making the jump across the space to the opposite ledge a little less than a second ahead of Clint reaching the end of his. He knows that he has no time to spare, but if he puts a bit more force into his movements, he'll have more time to get into position to catch Clint.

He lands harder, which he can take, but suddenly realizes he didn't account for the shift in the mattress; as soon as he lands and starts rolling onto his feet, the mattress shifts ever so slightly, upsetting his balance. Before, when he was more careful with his landing, it didn't happen, but now he has to reach out to steady himself.

At the back of his mind, he knows he has lost the time he tried to gain, and swiftly forces his body to lunge forward, thighs pumping hard as he rushes back to the edge to meet Clint half-way as the other man jumps and reaches his hand out towards him.

Steve dashes forward, right arm outstretched, fingers wide open to clasp Clint by the forearm in a move they have practiced a lot, but an instant later he realizes he's not going to make it. He tries to reach, almost tipping his body over the edge of the platform as he follows Clint's perfectly aimed jump, but his fingers barely graze against Clint's hand before the man is falling down.

The drop is long enough to cause minor injury, but with the thicker padding softening the landing to the floor, all that happens is Clint lets out a winded _oof_ and settles down with a wheeze and a groan.

Steve remains frozen on the edge of the platform, his hand still outstretched, fingers tense as they flex in mockery of finishing the failed maneuver.

"Well, that went according to plan," Natasha comments dryly. "Want to try again?"

"Give me a minute," Clint calls from below.

Just then the door opens and Tony walks in. "There's dinner," he calls out. "We got some Chinese take-out."

"I could eat," Clint decides. "We can continue this at a later date." He rolls to his side, wincing a bit, then slowly gets to his feet.

"New move?" Tony asks.

"Needs some more work," Clint shrugs.

Natasha starts moving towards the ladder that leads back to the floor-level, then stops and glances back at Steve. "You coming?" she asks.

Slowly, Steve pulls himself a bit further from the edge, drawing his arm to his body. "I'll be a bit longer," he replies, wondering if she can hear the thudding of his heart from where she's standing.

Apparently not, because Natasha nods and descends gracefully, catching up to Clint and Tony. It doesn't appear like Clint is actually hurt, but the fall obviously had an impact because he's moving a bit slower. He'll be laughing it off soon enough.

Steve isn't laughing, though. Once the door closes, he tries to even out his breathing, but all he can think of is missing his timing and not being able to grab Clint in time, his body plummeting down.

_Down into the icy ground below._

Steve shakes his head and forces himself onto his feet, taking a surprisingly unsteady step backwards. His mind attempts to connect the dots, combining Clint's startled expression with the horror on Bucky's face as the metal gives and he plummets down, Steve's hand unable to reach him in time.

He can almost feel the wind on his skin again, icy and painful, yet his body is going numb from shock.

Another step and he almost falls down, knees weak. He wants to throw up and sag down, but forces his leg muscles to hold his body upright. Weakness will lead to failure, and failure…

Steve looks out towards the edge of the platform, trying to remind himself of where he is and that there was never any real danger in Clint's fall. Minor discomfort, perhaps, but nothing else.

They played it safe.

However, out in the field in the midst of a battle, there will be no padded mattress catching his fall. If Steve can't catch him, the next time might leave Clint falling to his death.

He can't have that again. Not only because his teammates depend on him – like Bucky did… Well, that is the only thing that counts, isn't it? Steve's psychological struggle is his own private issue. The only thing his fellow Avengers are concerned about is Steve playing his part. As long as he manages to do that, the rest won't matter.

His inner struggle can't affect the outcome.

Squaring his shoulders, Steve faces the edge and jumps, reaching up with his arms to catch the platform above. He pulls himself up effortlessly and returns to the spot where he started from, once again picturing the next series of motions in his mind. It's all crystal clear to him, and after a steadying breath, he turns and dashes to the edge, jumping down, then rolls to his feet and takes the two quick steps to reach the edge, arm outstretched, fingers reaching for air where Clint should be dropping towards him from his own jump.

Without the other man there, Steve can't actually tell how close his timing truly is. It might be he would have easily caught him this time – or missed again.

It is the latter option he fears, and that prompts him to return to his starting point, executing the jump, roll and reach again – and again. His body is beginning to beg for respite, but he is determined to fix his mistake, to never allow it to happen again.

In the absence of a sparring partner, Steve cannot be sure his actions are fast enough. He starts counting seconds after four repeats, trying to get to the edge faster and faster. Trying to break the record is hard, though, because rushing his drop-and-roll to the lower platforms tends to lead to the padded mattress shifting, which upsets his balance and slows him down more than the faster approach saves him time.

A couple times he tries jumping directly into position on the edge of the platform, but he just ends up going over the side, unable to catch his balance in time, getting a taste of how Clint must have felt when he fell.

Instead of actually taking the hint, his failures make Steve's brain work twice as hard. He's aware that time is passing, his body thrumming with exhaustion. His stress-levels keep him going, though, because he can envision an actual failure to save his teammate all too easily, and if a few more hours of practice can minimize that danger even a little bit…

He climbs back up to the highest platform, going over the same set of moves another ten times before selecting different platforms to use for a very similar approach. He envisions Clint or Natasha coming from a different direction, going over their imaginary movements in his head before attempting to catch them mid-jump.

Over and over, he feels like he's failing; he's a fraction too slow, losing his footing or missing the perfect landing by a tiny margin, which results in disaster. Sure, it's all in his head, but it can too easily be translated into actual events. So far they've all gotten lucky…

"Steve?"

He blinks and freezes mid-climb to the highest platform, looking down.

Tony and Natasha are standing there, and Clint is slowly making his way over, a big plastic bag dangling from his fingers. Steve thinks he can smell food all the way to where he's climbing.

"Are you still working out?" Tony calls out, and Steve's enhanced vision makes out the frown on his face.

"It's been hours," Clint chimes in. "We thought maybe you had hit the showers and got lost, getting pulled into another crowd or something."

It happens, sometimes, with S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel chatting him up. Steve's polite, and he works with these people often enough to want to show some interest in their work and personal lives.

"I just… wanted to brush up on a few things."

"For three hours?" Natasha's comment is deadpan, like she isn't going to buy any of the excuses Steve lets loose from his lips.

Steve debates finishing the climb, then drops down to the platform beneath him instead. His feet shake with the effort of keeping him upright, but his enhanced stamina doesn't betray him just yet. However, exhaustion is starting to finally rear its ugly head in a way that Steve cannot ignore.

"I'm fine," he calls out to his teammates. "Super-soldier, remember? I can keep it up for a few extra reps."

"You look like you've done more than a _few_ extra," Clint informs him.

Steve doesn't buy it without looking in a mirror, so he admits nothing.

"What's the point of training by yourself?" Tony asks. "Are the rest of us holding you back?" He doesn't mean it exactly as he says it, because Tony rarely participates in training regimens where his performance hinders someone else's. Sure, he's done his share of lifts with the three of them, in the event they need Iron Man to offer them a ride on the battlefield, but he's yet to drop any of them; the difficulties are more related to him not hurting his passengers, either with excess force or thruster-related burns.

Still, there is Clint and Natasha to take into consideration; they will never admit to slowing Captain America down, but they might feel like they do when the going gets exceptionally tough and Steve stops holding back.

"It was something I needed to do, after today's training," Steve replies. "To hone my own moves."

"Is this about you dropping me?" Clint asks, not sounding at all worried that it happened.

Steve's muscles tense up involuntarily. His mind revisits Clint's fall, and then automatically jumps further back to Bucky's.

"It happens," Clint speaks up. "That's why we practice, so that it hopefully doesn't happen in the field, where there's no padding to soften the fall."

"I know," Steve says. He knows that. If he were able to think only that far, and no further, it would be okay and he wouldn't have felt the need to hang back, going over his mistake and analyzing every little thing that contributed to him missing his mark.

Just thinking about it makes his chest tighten, his body almost vibrating as exhaustion battles the need to _do it right_. To not repeat the mistake.

Natasha gives her companions a look, then sets forward, nimbly climbing up to the first level of the platforms. Steve can see what she's trying to do and meets her half-way, not forcing her to come all the way to him.

"You need to pull your head away from the memory," Natasha tells him once they're on the same level. It shouldn't surprise Steve that she knows, or at least pretends to know, but it still does. As much as people know about his life, they sometimes forget it's real to him, instead of something in history books and old news reels.

For him, it hasn't been all that long.

"Is that what's driving you up the wall?" Clint calls out, shamelessly eavesdropping. "I can imagine it being a problem."

Steve almost argues that it isn't the problem, but would he be lying if he did that?

"It's tough when you fear you'll repeat such an impactful mistake," Tony speaks up. "However, you'll have to trust yourself not to go down that road again when it counts the most – and have a little faith in your team, because we're very resourceful people," he adds. "It's not all on you all the time, Cap."

"Coming from you, that's hardly sound advice," Steve declares, even though he does appreciate Tony trying to cheer him up.

Tony shrugs, clearly not taking it as a personal attack. "I'm just repeating what I've been told."

Clint snorts. "Well, there's some truth in it, which you could both consider every once in a while." He lifts the hand that is carrying the bag of leftovers. "There's some food left, if you're hungry," he calls out directly to Steve.

"I am," Steve admits.

"Need to feed that crazy metabolism," Tony observes. "We might have to stop by another restaurant on our way to the Tower."

As Steve and Natasha climb down, no one speaks again of Steve's obsessive behavior. He's glad, because nothing they say is likely to change how he feels, and he's not in a mood to actively pretend nothing's wrong. Just because they know it bothers him doesn't mean they understand just how bad it is, sometimes, and Steve would rather keep it that way.

He doesn't see a way to make it better, other than attempting to keep another one of his friends from falling to their death just because he isn't good enough to stop it.

* * *

"Captain Rogers?"

The voice floats forward from the dark, like fighting its way through tar-like sludge. He isn't even sure if that's what the sound is, calling out to him; it rings familiar enough, so that's what his brain decides it is: someone calling for him.

For an unknown period of time, there is only humming, like a machine or air conditioning rather than human voices. His focus drifts in and out at irregular intervals, making it next to impossible to detect a pattern – if there even is one.

Then, finally, he thinks he can hear words again. At first, they are simply sounds too irregular to be part of the background noise. Soon, he thinks he can make out syllables, although he wouldn't venture to guess what language they are a part of. It reminds him of English, but maybe that's just his brain clutching at something semi-familiar and making it seem like more than it really is.

After all, that is how the mind works, patching together often random pieces of information to make a whole picture. Whether that is the truth, or a flawed perception…

He finds little comfort in that knowledge, for obvious reasons. Distressed and constantly more aware of the fact that something is going on – that he might be in danger – he fights to collect his thoughts and wills the world around him to make more sense. He is conscious or swiftly getting there, after all, which means he can affect the outcome if he puts enough effort into it. That is the true 'Steve Rogers Philosophy', as Tony might say, and that is something they can agree on.

Steve has always been a doer.

The words grow a tiny bit clearer, into something more than just tonal sounds.

He thinks he makes out one word in particular: _Captain_.

Telling himself that someone is calling out to him, he uses that as a guideline to start pulling himself to full wakefulness. It's harder than it should be, like climbing a steep, slippery slope. Tenacity is in his nature, though, and he is making headway, albeit painfully slowly. Sometimes it feels like he's right back where he started, in the midst of the humming, blurred sounds – like being trapped underwater.

His tenacity is starting to pay off, however. He can feel a change, for the first time connecting with his physical form and not just his jumbled thoughts and feelings he struggles to be in control of.

As his consciousness slowly begins to connect with physical sensations, he instantly feels sick and disoriented. He hasn't felt quite like that in a very long time, and for a tiny moment he wishes he could just sink back under where every sensation is minimal. However, he already knows what awaits him there, and it isn't what he wants.

The dizziness intensifies, solidifying as nausea deep within his chest. It makes him just a little more aware of his body, but not in a way he would prefer. He soldiers through it, though, because what other options does he have?

"Captain Rogers?"

The words are much clearer now, the fog dissipating from his mind. A woman's voice, but not someone he recognizes. Her tone suggests uncertainty, perhaps even a tiny hint of fear.

Slowly, Steve climbs to the surface; he grows aware of his own breaths, and the continued heaviness in his chest; the clamminess of his skin as if he has been running an intense fever or a radical case of night sweats; an unusual heaviness in his limbs, like rigid tension slowly melting into pliability as he slowly begins regaining control.

Simply being able to feel his body is a revelation. To actually move takes more concentration than it should, and he still experiences intense nausea and dizziness.

"Take your time, Captain," the woman's voice tells him. "You have been asleep a long time…"

His mind latches onto the words, and he feels sick for a very different reason. Still, he tells himself not to read too much into it, to over-think the simple message. Just because he thinks it might mean something doesn't make it so. His fears can easily play tricks on him, especially when he is already feeling quite out of it.

Though, when he woke up at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base after the ice, he didn't feel like this. It was rather like waking up from a long nap.

This knowledge does little to comfort him, and Steve focuses on regaining control of his body. One step at a time, no reason to worry about it prematurely. He doesn't have all the facts, and until he does, he has to be patient.

When it's hard to even twitch your finger, patience is hard to come by.

Steve's used to not getting what he wants – at least not right away – but it's never been from lack of trying. He decides this time will be no different, and keeps on trying to reclaim his body and get past the sickening sensation of dizziness.

He hasn't been sick since the serum, and he wonders if getting ill now might actually feel that much worse. The serum was supposed to make him the perfect soldier, and those don't exactly catch the seasonal flu. So, for him to feel this bad, it has to be pretty serious.

The closer he comes to regaining full consciousness, the more the nausea is pushed back. That is a relief, finally, and even though he doesn't need motivation, every little thing helps – especially when he doesn't know what waits on the other side. He likes being prepared, but he has a feeling this is one of those things he just has to take as they come.

As sensory input starts reaching his brain in a comprehensible fashion, he is able to deduce he's lying down on a surface that is just soft enough to be comfortable – like a hard bed. Shifting his fingers, he feels the sheets, further confirming his theory on what he is lying on.

The hum is still there, but not as overwhelming anymore. He can definitely classify it as air conditioning, something in a more industrial setting than a home. There are no other sounds that he can make out, though, and he suspects the room he's in isn't all that large.

Then there's the woman who has been talking to him: he can't sense her, exactly, but there is a distinct feeling that he is being watched. The hum of the AC is too loud for him to hear her breathe, if she's that close to him, and that prompts him to finally fight to open his eyes and take a look at his surroundings.

The nausea comes back with a vengeance, his vision filling with spots of light for a moment before his eyes adjust, albeit painfully. It feels like something finally pops into place in his brain, the rest of his body registering as it should – even though he feels pretty horrible.

This is not the kind of discomfort that follows physical injury; Steve is intimately familiar with that. What he is currently experiencing is like waking up after a too-long sleep, possibly preceded by grueling conditions and too little rest. After all, that's about the only stuff that makes him crave that much rest.

As his eyes finally begin to cooperate, he can make out a bare room with metallic walls and too-bright lamps embedded in the ceiling. It's as if whoever adjusted the lighting didn't want him to remain under for any longer than is necessary.

There is indeed a woman in the room with him: she sits on a simple chair three feet from him, body rigid with nervousness. At first glance she doesn't seem frightened, exactly, but she is definitely not within her comfort zone.

"Take it easy, Captain," she says upon noticing his gaze, leaning forward just a bit. "You will most likely feel disorientation…"

So, she knows he's not feeling his best. That doesn't exactly fill Steve with confidence, and he struggles to move. The nausea rolls over him as he forces his body upright, the simple act of sitting up threatening to throw him back down with extreme vertigo. He felt something akin to this before the serum, especially if he had been ill and bedridden for days.

He looks down at himself to make sure that is not the case now, and finds his body strong and serum-enhanced beneath the simple white hospital pajamas he's wearing – at least by outwards appearances. At the moment he doesn't feel strong, but he's certain he'll have more information in a few minutes once the vertigo passes.

In the meantime, he keeps an eye on the woman, checking her for clues. She is wearing a simple steel gray uniform that doesn't much differ from the color of the walls around them. There is a symbol embroidered at the chest of the jacket that he doesn't recognize, although it looks a bit like a variant of the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia. Her brown hair is tied in a bun behind her head, no frills or a strand out of place.

She offers him a tiny smile, possibly one of encouragement, and Steve slowly straightens himself further, dropping his gaze to examine the bed he has been lying in. It's as simple as the rest of the room, a thin mattress and sheets a bit too coarse to be comfortable covering a simple metal frame. The bedding feels warm, suggesting he's been lying there for some time.

"Are you feeling any better?" the woman asks. Steve detects no accent in her speech, nothing to place her. She sounds genuine enough, interested in his wellbeing, making herself appear a less of a threat than she perhaps is.

Steve has no reason to doubt her, just as he has no reason to trust her, and decides to take it slow, just in case. Instead of answering, he looks around some more, and slowly begins to shift his body sideways so that he'll be able to place his feet on the floor. The woman watches him, not trying to stop his progress, and slowly Steve settles his bare feet onto the cool floor. It makes him shiver, but he doesn't lift his feet, finding the sensation rather grounding.

"How do you feel?" the woman asks again. She is being patient, but Steve thinks there's still a hint of nervousness in her. Well, he is a stranger, and woozy or not, he would be able to hurt her in case she's a threat. Smartly, she is not implying anything like that.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, and finds his throat so scratchy barely any sound escapes. He clears his throat, swallows, and tries again: "Better," he says, not revealing just how horrid he was feeling mere moments ago; his head is starting to clear, the vertigo loosening its hold.

"Good," the woman says. "I can get you something to drink, if you'd like."

Steve considers the offer, then slowly nods in agreement.

The woman nods back and stands up, walking to the nondescript door and opening it, slipping out and closing it after her. Steve can hear a lock click into place, and attempts to listen to her footsteps. The walls are thick enough to block any sounds, however, and he busies himself by standing up and slowly stretching, feeling more in control by the minute.

He walks about, further testing his body for injuries, inspecting the room as he goes. Steve thinks he can spot a few cameras, effectively covering the entire room that isn't much larger than twenty by twenty-five feet. The ventilation is loud in his ears, and he can detect a breeze on the bare sections of his skin, although he can barely make out the holes near the ceiling. There are no windows, medical equipment or even a faucet. For all intents and purposes, the room looks like a prison cell with its simple bed, two uncomfortable looking chairs and a small table.

As he's making another slow turn about the room, searching for clues and waking up his body, he hears the lock move and turns around to watch the same woman enter, this time with a tall glass of water. She doesn't show her surprise at him being on his feet, but it's possible she checked a security feed before entering.

"I'm glad you are feeling good enough to move around," she says, giving him a tiny smile, and offers him the glass. As his fingers touch it, he feels hard plastic instead of actual glass, but the water gently sloshing inside appears innocent enough. He smells it, just in case, then takes a cautious sip, trying to detect any unknown elements. For now he finds none, and drinks another sip before setting the cup down on the tiny table that barely reaches past his thighs in height.

"Where am I?" Steve finally asks. "Who are you?"

"What is the last thing you remember?" the woman asks in turn.

Steve frowns and refuses to answer. When he thinks of it, he isn't sure; his memories seem muddled and unclear, and it's hard to pinpoint which piece exactly is the last one. He's not about to tell the woman that, though.

She seems to realize he's not going to volunteer any information – not until he's received some in return. Even then, Steve's willingness to talk will depend on what he's going to hear, and how he feels about it.

"Would you like to sit down?" the woman asks, gesturing towards the chairs and the table.

"I'll stand," Steve replies. He doubts he could have a formal chat, dressed as he is, and his body isn't feeling quite normal yet.

The woman chooses to sit on the other side of the table, either shielding herself or leaving the chair closest to Steve available to him should he choose to sit in it. "My name is Claire Hamilton. I work for G.S.N. – Global Safety Network – and this is one of our safest locations in the Greater New York area." She shifts and hesitates. "This area used to be called Manhattan."

"Used to?" Steve frowns.

"It is the year 2068," Claire informs him hesitantly. "We believe you have been… asleep… for quite some time."

Steve stares at her, making her unease grow. "I've heard this speech before," he finally says.

"After you were found in the ice," Claire immediately jumps at the chance to explain. "Our records show that, and perhaps that is why you survived… For the longest time we weren't sure if you would awaken, but your body showed next to no deterioration, so our scientists were hopeful. Of course, they were concerned for your state of mind, once you awakened, and whether you would be coherent."

Steve looks at her, this stranger telling him he's lost another unbearably large number of years. The mere thought makes him feel sick, but he refuses to just believe it at face value. Last time, it took running out into the streets of New York to actually sledgehammer the truth into his head, and this time will be no different.

"I realize you have questions – but so do we," Claire tells him. "We have so little uncorrupted information left from your time, and getting to talk to an actual person is of uttermost importance to our cause."

"Which is?"

"To save the world," Claire tells him with confidence.

"From what?"

"A.I.M."

That sounds vaguely familiar.

"Advanced Idea Mechanics," Claire clarifies. "They were just a technology company back in the day, but they had dangerous ideas. And then they got their hands on Iron Man technology."

There were a lot of words in that sentence that Steve didn't like, especially when put together. "How did they manage that?" he asks.

"Espionage, larceny – and possibly murder."

"Tony would never just hand over his technology," Steve murmurs, not liking where this conversation is going.

"Tony Stark," Claire jumps at the name, as if Steve's just given her the answer to a question that's been eluding her. "You knew him, didn't you? The creator of Iron Man technology?"

"Yes," is all Steve says.

"Then perhaps you would be willing to help us. This technology in the wrong hands has brought the world to its knees, unmatched by anything we've been able to compile. A raiding party secured some blueprints a few months ago – at a great cost of life to the men and women who braved the A.I.M. facility they were housed in. However, the blueprints are incomplete, but with your knowledge of Iron Man –"

"Stop," Steve raises a hand, stopping her over-excited babbling.

Claire leans back and attempts to compose herself. "I apologize, Captain. A chance like this hasn't presented itself in my lifetime – not since A.I.M. set its plans in motion, in fact. Discovering your body is a breakthrough many of us have been praying for, and having you awake and conscious…"

She truly seems elated to be talking to him, but it's a lot to take in.

"I think I need a moment to think," Steve muses.

"Of course," she nods and stands up. "I will bring you print outs of the blueprints, just in case you feel like taking a look. Oh, and food," she adds belatedly. "You must be starving."

Steve hadn't truly felt any hunger until food is mentioned. Now, it feels like he hasn't eaten in days – or perhaps years, if that is the case. "Food would be nice," he admits.

Claire nods again and heads to the door. It opens for her, and she slips through. Just like before, it shuts behind her and the lock clicks.

She hasn't offered to give him a room with actual amenities, or clothes, nor has she given him actual proof of what she has said.

Steve takes a look around, measuring the room once again with his eyes. Perhaps there is a toilet hidden somewhere and he just can't tell, if it is indeed the future. The Tower was futuristic enough on occasion…

He feels out of his element, but he tells himself not to jump to conclusions. Claire – if that is truly her name – has been convincing enough in her act, but it could be nothing more than that. After all, S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to trick him when he first woke up, but their attempt had so many flaws he's begun to wonder whether those were on purpose, to give him a hint of something being wrong.

This time, there are no hints – at least none he can see right away. It puts him on edge for various reasons, and one of the largest ones is the fear that he has indeed missed several decades by some means he does not yet know.

He has no recollection of how he ended up here. Last time, he could remember the crash, but now it's all a jumbled mess he can make no sense off.

Perhaps it will come to him eventually, after a period of real sleep. What he feels now is not from natural rest.

However, he isn't certain he wants to lower his guard just yet.

Claire returns after approximately fifteen minutes, balancing a tray of food in her hands and a stack of papers under one arm. Steve waits as long as he can, but eventually steps over to her and takes the tray before she can drop it. The smile Claire offers to him in thanks seems genuine, but Steve still tells himself to not buy it at face value.

He sets the tray down on the table, and Claire does the same with the papers, smoothing the cover that has become slightly crumpled. "There is a meeting I must attend, so I'll leave you to it for a while," she says.

Steve wonders if the meeting is about him, and what kind of information she's managed to divulge. Perhaps there is no meeting whatsoever, and they'll just monitor him and wait for a reaction.

He nods his head in confirmation, and with one last seemingly nervous brush of fingers against the paper stack, she turns and exits once more, the door opening to let her out and locking behind her.

Steve waits for a moment and takes yet another look around the room. His eyes finally rest on the food, which seems processed. A bit like army rations… He examines it, a bottle of water and some kind of juice with added vitamins, according to the label. There are also a few protein bars and what is possibly imitating a sandwich, wrapped in an air-tight plastic bag.

His eyes move on to the papers, but he resists the urge while opening the bottle of water and sniffing it. There are no unfamiliar odors, and he takes a careful sip, waiting for unwanted effects to take hold. As far as he can tell, it is just water, but he doesn't drink it all at once even though he is starting to feel a bit thirsty.

Curiosity is beginning to win the struggle inside him, and he finally looks at the papers, which contain imagery and some kind of scientific calculations. Not a single page he looks at seems complete, more like a piece in a puzzle – or pieces from various puzzles – and he tries to arrange them in groups to make sense of it. He can see images that are obviously related to Tony's suits, some clearer than others. There are many that are probably related to the inner workings of the armor, but he can't tell whether it's weaponry or a coolant system.

There are over a hundred pages of data, and he ends up with eight stacks after sorting through them. He can't tell if any of them contain a complete set, or if it's just partials and fractions – plus there are pages he can make no sense of whatsoever, sitting in a stack of their own.

Images are easier for him to handle, obviously, and some seem familiar, even. For all he knows, they could be from suits he's seen Tony wear, but he really can't tell. Surely Tony's been recycling ideas and designs, because most of the suits look pretty much the same to an outsider.

If they expect Steve to be able to piece any of this together…

He halts, hand resting on top of a page that features a familiar face plate. All he's done is divide the pages into groups, which practically anyone could do based on the information found on said pages, but if this is some kind of a trap, he doesn't want to help these people with whatever goal they have in mind.

Even this much could be playing into the hands of his captors…

However, if these people are genuinely under attack from A.I.M. and their stolen Iron Man technology, Steve should do his best to help them.

He has to come up with some way to either confirm Claire's claims, or expose her lies.

Looking at the room he's been confined in, he tries to find some clue to solve his problem. He's tempted to try and break out; if Claire is telling the truth, there will be no real harm in it, he's certain. If this is some ploy to get information on one of his teammates, however, an escape attempt will no doubt create an instant backlash.

Steve starts with the door, seeing as that is the single point of entry he's seen so far. It doesn't budge in the slightest as he experimentally pushes at it, and there is no control panel on the inside that he can see; the door must be controlled from the outside, and that means someone is watching.

He tries to pry some of the wall paneling loose, to see if there is wiring he can manipulate instead of using brute force. His fingers ache as he pulls and yanks, then scans the room for a tool he can use to assist his bare hands. He ends up choosing one of the chairs, tearing apart one of its legs and using that to attack the wall.

By the time one of the panels is getting slightly twisted and he can just barely hook his fingers beneath one of its corners, he's sweating and there are a few wounds on his hands. He wipes the blood onto his clothes to minimize the slickness, but he eventually steps back and frowns at the wall, waiting for the wounds to close and stop bleeding. The place has been built to resist the escape attempts of an enhanced individual, that's for sure.

He's still biding his time, frowning at the door, when it suddenly opens. Claire's expression is one of uncertainty, as if she knows what he's been up to.

"Captain, your hands," she starts, then shakes her head. "I apologize, I didn't realize just how distressing the circumstances would be, considering your history."

Steve waits. She still seems genuine enough in her actions. If there is a chance she isn't lying… He can feel unease twist in his stomach. _Not again._

"I will give you a tour of the facilities, of course," Claire promises. "However, we want to make sure you're in good enough health before doing so."

"If you want me to trust you, you'll have to give me more than that," he says honestly. The door is still open, Claire hovering in the doorway. He could easily rush her and push out. She seems to realize that as well, tensing slightly.

"I know this is confusing –"

An alarm begins blaring, cutting her off. She looks startled by it, and color drains even further from her face.

If she plans on saying something, it is drowned by an immediate explosion which rocks the foundations of the facility and makes the lights flicker both inside and out of Steve's room.

"No," Claire whispers, looking up and down the hallway. A range of emotions crosses her features, the last one desperation as she looks at Steve. "Please, Captain, you need to help us –"

The wall explodes behind her, throwing her to the floor. Dust fills the air and Steve's lungs, forcing him to cover his face and blink his eyes rapidly to keep them as clear as possible. There is a hole in the wall now, and something is stepping through it – something heavy and mechanical. It is upright and humanoid in shape, and the glowing chest piece gives it away.

Iron Man.

Claire is whimpering on the floor, possibly injured. Steve looks down at her, and then at the advancing suit of armor. It seems familiar, but not _that_ familiar. It could be a new design – or something this A.I.M. organization cooked up from stolen blueprints.

Tension burns in his muscles. He doesn't have his shield or uniform, leaving him quite open and exposed for an attack. Whether his body is fit to fight after whatever he's been through is also questionable; he'll give it a shot, but taking on Iron Man is no light feat. There are some weak spots he'll go for, and as he thinks that, his hand is already reaching for the leg he broke off the chair.

The armor's eyes track the movement, and when he picks up the leg, fingers curling around the metal length, the armor takes a step forward.

Steve raises his arm, and his weapon, adopting a defensive stance.

"Woah, Cap," says the occupant of the armor, raising his arms. It sounds like Tony… Steve doesn't relax his stance, fearing this will be a trick – and that's when the faceplate pops open, revealing a familiar face. "It's me," Tony says.

"No," moans Claire.

Tony glances down at her, then at Steve and the room behind him. A frown creases his brow. "We'll have a talk about this soon, but first I've got to crack some heads and recover stolen data."

Steve feels like smiling. A truth within a lie is always better than a lie based on complete deception… "Wait," he calls out as Tony moves to turn. "Who are they?" He wants to know – needs to put a face and name to this lie, aside from Claire's smudged features that now stare up at him with resentment, knowing the game is over.

"A.I.M.," Tony replies with a tiny motion of his shoulders that is probably a shrug. "Some offshoot of the original, anyway." He looks down at Claire again. "Whatever she told you was a lie," he adds, as if guessing some kind of deception was taking place prior to his arrival.

Steve nods.

Tony gives him one in return, then snaps the faceplate shut and walks down the hall. Gunfire and repulsor shots follow, but Steve remains where he is, pondering whether he feels relief or anger at almost being tricked into believing a lie – again. Because he knows he was considering trusting Claire and her message, the heartfelt hope in her every expression.

He looks down at her and finds a sneer has replaced that hope as she fights to get to her feet. "A little longer, and we would have _had_ you," she huffs angrily.

"To do what? Spill all I know about Iron Man?" Steve hears the anger in his voice, fueled by the shame at being so gullible. "You would have been sorely disappointed," he informs her. "Stark's janitorial staff knows more about his work than I do."

She gets to her knees and sways a bit. Her hair is no longer neat, dusty and coming out of its bindings. There's no more room for the act, no reason to keep it up. "It was worth a shot," she says. "You were the weakest link."

He takes a step forward and punches her in the face, faster than he can register he's doing it. She slumps down, unconscious, more blood on her face than there was a moment ago.

Steve wonders whether the new wave of shame he feels is for hitting an unarmed woman, or the fact that she was perhaps right.

He looks down the hallway, listening to the semi-silence; the battle is clearly over, and aside from the distant crackle of fire and occasional rumble of collapsing structures, there are no sounds. Waiting has never been something Steve excels at, despite what people think, but he doesn't go off wandering, tossing aside the chair leg he's been holding onto and waiting for Tony to come back.

When Tony returns, his armor doesn't look much worse save for a layer of dust attempting to cling to it.

"There are some prints in there," Steve tells him, nodding towards the room behind him, and Tony steps past him and fires a quick blast, sending a new wave of rubble and smoke billowing out of there. As he steps away, he notices Claire on the floor – whether that is even her real name. Most likely not.

"She give you any trouble?" he asks lightly.

"None that I couldn't handle," Steve replies dryly.

"Let's get out of here," Tony says, already moving forward through the hole in the wall, and Steve follows a bit shakily.

"How did you find me?" Steve asks as they move across a larger space that looks almost like a hangar of some kind, then step out into deepening dusk. Fresh air pummels his lungs, forcing Steve to stop for a moment and take stock of his body, which is still feeling weakened.

"I wasn't looking for you," Tony replies. "When I breached the compound, J.A.R.V.I.S. informed me that you were on the premises." He takes a good look at Steve, the faceplate popping open again. "We weren't sure if you were off on your own or…"

"Missing," Steve completes the sentence. "How long was I AWOL?"

"A couple days." Tony shifts, which could almost be missed within the suit. "We should have checked, what with all of your gear still at the Tower…" It seems he's feeling some guilt right about now. "How did they catch you?"

"No idea," Steve admits before he can think about it, but that fact should make him a little nervous. "I'm sure it will come back to me eventually."

Tony is studying him, his silence meaning he's actively processing information in his head. If his faceplate was down, he could be having an entire conversation with his AI or someone else on the comms, but for now it's just the two of them. "What were they trying to do?" he asks. "You don't seem too badly injured."

Steve debates whether to tell him, but a sudden wave of weakness passes through him and he almost falls down. Tony moves forward, a bit awkward in the suit, placing an arm under Steve's, steadying him. "They had me under, I think. I woke up a few hours ago, and haven't really recovered," he confesses. "It's nothing serious, as far as I can tell," he adds.

Tony is notorious for overlooking his injuries when it suits him, and Steve is confident he won't press the matter.

He doesn't.

"What did they want?" he asks instead.

"Information," Steve tells him. It will come up eventually. "They spun a whole tale about how A.I.M. stole your technology and took over the world or something. That this was the future and I was their only hope to defeat them, with my knowledge of your work in the past."

Tony opens his mouth, then closes it before he can say a word. He's silent for almost a minute before he speaks, which is an eternity for Tony Stark. It makes Steve dread whatever he chooses to put to words.

"I take it she was succeeding in convincing you," Tony says, and then waits. Steve's surprised he's able to contain himself from saying more.

With a sigh, Steve takes a step away, dislodging Tony's arms and instead moving to sit on an upturned car that's clearly been on the receiving end of Tony's attack. The car creaks and shifts as Steve sits down, more heavily than he intended, but remains stable after that. "She deserves an A for effort," he admits. "I didn't want to believe it, but…" He looks at Tony, wondering whether he wants to hash this out with him.

It's like a dam inside him, and right now there's too much pressure behind it, and something has to give. Tony is his teammate, and while they don't always agree, he trusts him.

"I already went through it once, waking up from the ice. S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to trick me into thinking no time had passed, but… I don't think they ever meant for it to work," he says. Tony remains silent, listening for once. "Just the idea that I could have lost another chunk of time was hard to swallow." He hopes it sounds like he didn't believe her act for a minute.

"But you knew it could happen – because it had," Tony uncovers the truth of it.

Steve nods, afraid he'll say something he regrets.

Tony sighs, his left boot shifting on the ground, clumsily kicking a rock. "Well, you can count on me to come and give you a knock on the head whenever it happens again," he jokes – or maybe it isn't a joke, but he's clearly trying to make light of the matter.

Maybe it's not even that, but simply Tony's way of promising to come after him if this should happen in the future, and to find a way to break the illusion.

The idea that someone else could think to use this ploy, perhaps with an even more elaborate plan than this one, is a painful one. Steve knows he'll be even less trusting should it happen again, having learned from this experience, but the fact remains that one of these days, it might be real.

Living with that kind of fear isn't something normal people experience, Steve knows.

He wonders how they would handle it if they did, because he's having a hard time dealing with it.

"I think I need a drink," Tony muses, unconsciously answering Steve's question. It makes Steve chuckle, then sigh, his body feeling heavy again, like he's being dragged back under.

"Maybe you should improve the security measures around your work first," Steve dares to suggest, to keep his mind active.

Tony huffs. "They got lucky. That leak has been plugged and sealed for good." He shifts and his gaze breaks away from Steve for a moment. "J.A.R.V.I.S., send the Quinjet and get the med bay ready."

Steve can't hear the AI reply, but he knows it will be an affirmative. "I'm fine," he says.

"You can barely stand, and you look like you're going to fall asleep in the middle of this conversation," Tony argues. "Whatever they put in you, we need to make sure it isn't dangerous."

He's right, of course. There aren't a whole lot of things that can put him under with such success, and have a lasting effect like what he's experiencing.

As they wait for the Quinjet to arrive, Steve battles the weariness and also tries to stay away from unpleasant thoughts, of which there are many, fighting to occupy his mind. "Can you not tell the others about this?" he finally asks Tony, who is looking a bit bored already.

"I'll have to tell them something," Tony counters.

"Not the part about them trying to trick me," Steve zeroes in on the most uncomfortable aspect of this whole ordeal.

This will be something Tony can hold over him in the future, but that can't be helped. Steve has enough problems as it is, adjusting to living in this world, and he doesn't need his team worrying about when he's going to be taken by their enemies and tricked into believing he's been transported into the future.

"Your secret is safe with me – and J," Tony finally promises. "But it isn't healthy to bottle up all this inside, you know," he adds. "Or so I've been told," he finishes with a joke. Frankly, Tony doesn't appear to bottle up a lot of things – or so it seems. Steve is beginning to think that perhaps there are things he doesn't broadcast, and the things he does put out in the open are simply there to hide his true struggles.

"I've got it under control, mostly," Steve promises. It isn't a complete lie.

Tony doesn't challenge it.

The Quinjet arrives some minutes later, controlled by J.A.R.V.I.S. it seems. Steve is relieved to find there's no one else on board, and he tries to relax on the flight back, even though that threatens to send his weary body over the edge. Falling asleep isn't what he wants to do right now.

When they begin approaching New York City, Tony shifts in the pilot's seat. He hasn't done a lot of hands-on piloting during the flight, but clearly he prefers sitting there to standing around in his suit. It's easier to read his body language outside the armor, and Steve is instantly on his guard, not knowing exactly what is coming next.

Tony doesn't seem to know either, taking a while to just look at him while J.A.R.V.I.S. begins to slow down for the final approach on Manhattan. Steve can see the city lights from the window when Tony finally chooses to speak up: "If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me," he blurts out. Clearly it takes them both by surprise, and Tony glances away. "Or, you can talk to J.A.R.V.I.S. He's very discrete."

_"Indeed,"_ the AI agrees over the speakers.

Steve struggles to find an appropriate answer. "Thanks," is what he comes up with.

He doesn't promise to make use of that offer, because he knows he won't. They already had a talk back at the A.I.M. compound, and as far as Steve is concerned, that's enough for now.

It's not that he doesn't trust Tony, or want to occasionally share the thoughts that plague him.

That simply isn't how Steve Rogers deals with his problems.

**The End**


End file.
